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After a certain number of years—far fewer than the number Lucifer has lived—the question of sex becomes a dull one. Easily answered. Easily accepted.
It is little more than just a meeting of bodies in the end. And all bodies, whether demon or human, follow much the same general pattern. Soft and hard in turns. Sweat slicked and lithe. An endless canvas of skin and muscle and the bones beneath, all moving with a single purpose: pleasure.
Or something approximating it.
There is little new under the sun. Or under whatever passes for sun in Hell. And yet, despite all this, despite the centuries Lucifer has lived, when she stands at the bedroom door, her mouth dry, eyes as wide as saucers, there is one thing she is certain of:
This is new.
Alastor—Allie—lies in the bed. Her bed, that is. Lucifer's. Quite how she got there remains a mystery; Lucifer’s doors are warded, and she’s certain that Allie hadn’t been there when she had left. Whilst the days often blur, one looking very much like the next to her weary eye, Lucifer knows she would remember leaving a bed full of Radio Demon. Allie graces it rarely enough, and only ever upon request.
If Lucifer’s invitations are rejected more often than not, it is something she doesn’t let herself dwell upon. That way madness and self doubt lies, and Lucifer knows she possesses enough of both already.
She knows this, too: that Allie is here, uninvited, is new.
The soft gasps that come from the bed are new, too. As is the scent of arousal that permeates the air. The way her claws dig into the bedding beneath her.
It’s all new and intoxicating, and Lucifer can feel her head beginning to spin with the thrill of it.
Luxuriating in the heat that has started to curl deep in her abdomen, Lucifer slips into her room, and lets the door close softly behind her, unwilling to announce her presence just yet.
This is war.
And she cannot let Allie think she has won.
The torrid affair they seem to have fallen into isn’t so much one of lust as power. Allie doesn’t want. At least not for sex. That has become increasingly clear with every sordid encounter, each graze of lips, of teeth, of tongue speaking more eloquently of her desires than words ever could. Allie's interest is not motivated by lust. Her desires run in a different direction, the physical merely a means to an end. Another facet of the war between them, each thrust of Lucifer’s fingers into Allie’s tight, wet heat more of an assault upon Lucifer’s defences than her attempts at poisoning had ever been. A battle strategy carved from kisses and moans and a heart-stopping expanse of soft, delicate skin.
Likely a winning one, Lucifer thinks. But Allie has always had a knack for identifying weaknesses—Lucifer’s included. Exploiting them, too. Sex might be a foreign language to the Radio Demon, but it is one she has become fluent in, her tongue as wickedly sharp when thrust between Lucifer’s open thighs as it is when they spar.
It’s perverse. Dangerous, too.
But the poison that Lucifer can feel pulsing through her with each gasp, each moan, is so much more fun than cyanide.
A moan rises from the bed.
Lucifer bites her lip. She resists the urge to press her fingers to the ache that has settled at the crux of her thighs. Slide them down below the waistband of her slacks. Touch herself in the same way she is certain Allie is doing.
There will be time for that later.
Instead, she moves silently towards the bed, careful to keep to the shadows. Though the idea of simply snapping her fingers and pinning Allie down has its appeal, the act of watching, of waiting to pounce sends a thrill crackling up her spine. Arousal burns deep in her abdomen, leaving her almost uncomfortably slick as she imagines Allie’s fingers buried within herself, the demon so wrapped up in her own pleasure she is oblivious to her surroundings. To Lucifer, who stands silently in the darkness, cataloguing each fleeting expression that crosses Allie’s face, hand shoved hastily in her own mouth to muffle the moans.
She aches to move closer to the bed.
So she does.
A whisper and the shadows lengthen. The sound of panting covers Lucifer’s steps as she steals through the semi-darkness. Her own breath is harsh in her throat, ragged to her ears. She swallows drily as Allie’s form takes shape, the sparse curves of her stark against the brilliant white of the bedding.
Allie’s fully clothed, to Lucifer’s surprise, though she has shed her coat. It gives her an odd sense of nakedness, despite the fabric that covers her, throat to toe. An impression of vulnerability—one carefully crafted, no doubt.
Another low moan, barely audible, drifts from the bed. Lucifer watches as Allie shifts upon the blankets, eyes closed. One hand is fisted into the sheets below her, the other pressed flat against her abdomen, the side of her thumb grazing across the slight swell that sits between the sharp bones of her hips.
Lucifer had bitten her there once. Drawn blood. Licked the wound clean as Allie had convulsed beneath her, palm pressed against the demon’s twitching cunt, the sound of her climax ringing in her ears.
But that had been weeks ago. The marks had faded before Allie had caught her breath, much to Lucifer’s disappointment.
In the dim light that pours from the sconces upon the far wall, Lucifer can see the sweat beading upon Allie’s forehead. The crease of her irritatingly elegant features, too. The pain that sits in the divot between her brows. The pleasure at the edges of her smile.
Whatever troubles the Radio Demon now, it is something new.
Lucifer frowns.
‘Alastor?’
Dark red eyes flicker open.
‘You’re late,’ Allie replies, her gaze hotter than Lucifer has ever seen it.
It sends sparks crawling across Lucifer’s skin, her nerve endings crackling. Her tongue dips to wet her lower lip. Allie’s eyes follow the movement, her own lips parting in a shuddering exhale.
‘Oh yeah? Late for what? I don’t remember giving you an invitation.’ Taking a step forwards, Lucifer reaches out, tracing the bones in the back of Allie’s hand with the tips of her fingers. She watches as gooseflesh chases across the demon’s skin. ‘And you're hurt. Don’t lie. I can smell the blood.’
The copper tang of it pervades the air, cutting through the scent of arousal like a hot knife through butter.
‘I’m perfectly fine, I assure you.’
Lucifer quirks an eyebrow.
‘Not your blood?’ she says, her fingertips moving to stroke across the thin skin of Allie’s wrist.
The thought is not quite as repulsive as she expects, though she makes a mental note to add wanton slaughter to Allie’s increasingly strange list of turn ons.
And to change the sheets.
Allie gasps. ‘Now I didn’t say that.’
Her head tips back against the pillows, exposing the long column of her throat. One hand tightens upon the blankets, the tendons that cord up the back of her arm shifting beneath Lucifer’s fingers. The other presses against the flat of her stomach, claws digging into the fabric of her shirt.
Pain flickers across Allie’s features. It’s followed by a soft little moan; one that sounds almost obscene to Lucifer’s ears. A moment later, Allie’s hands relax. The one tangled in the bedsheets twists, long fingers snatching at Lucifer’s as she drags the Devil’s hand downwards to press between her thighs.
Her smile sharpens.
‘For a woman who has existed almost as long as time itself,’ Allie says, tongue flickering over the swell of her lower lip, ‘I’m sure you can work it out.’
Lucifer forces herself to think. To concentrate on the puzzle instead of the heat that rolls off Allie, and the way the fabric stretched over the core of her has become slick with whatever pain-twisted arousal the demon feels.
It takes a moment, but eventually the pieces slot into place.
‘Ah,’ Lucifer says, fingers lightly ghosting over the demon’s sex. ‘I see.’
It’s not a shock. Not really. Nor the fact that Allie finds it so arousing. The pain. The blood. If anything, the Radio Demon’s disinterest in the act of menstruation (whether her own or another’s) would have been far stranger. Allie has a masochistic streak a mile wide. It’s one of the things Lucifer reluctantly likes about her; that she’s just as willing to take pain as to inflict it. It appeals to Lucifer’s sense of fairness. And, selfishly, her own tightly controlled sadism.
She is the Devil, after all.
Another flicker of pain-tipped pleasure chases across the space between Allie’s brows and Lucifer feels the low curl of arousal in her belly further intensify. Eyes trained upon Allie’s face, she strokes her thumb across the sodden fabric of the demon’s slacks, grazing the sensitive peak of Allie’s clit with the edge of a perfectly manicured nail. She earns a desperate-sounding gasp in return. The power of it is thrilling.
‘Only you would get off on your own period pain,’ she says, pressing the tip of her index finger into the seam of Allie’s slacks. Right over the demon’s entrance.
’You don’t?’ Allie’s ever-present grin takes on a mocking quality. ‘How dull.’
’Kinda hard to when you don’t have them at all.’
Allie’s eyes widen. She licks her lips, lightly panting. ‘You don't suffer?’
‘Not like that,’ Lucifer says with a shrug. ‘I'm not human.’
‘Neither am I anymore.’
Lucifer slides her hand out from between Allie’s thighs. Shedding her hat, her jacket, she climbs onto the bed, pinning Allie’s wrists above her shoulders as she straddles her waist. The tops of her feet hook over Allie’s legs, forcing them to spread, exposing the mess she has made of her slacks.
‘I've never been human,’ Lucifer says, her thumbs rubbing across the delicate flesh of Allie’s inner wrists. ‘I don't… work that way.’
She never has. Her insides are as decorative as her outsides, with little more than stardust and void beneath carefully the constructed confines of her skin. She doesn’t need to eat, to sleep, to breathe.
Nor does she bleed.
At least, not like that.
A pity, Lucifer thinks as she watches Allie’s back arch. At least if the demon’s reaction is anything to go by.
Allie’s breasts—small, pert, perfect—press against the fabric of her shirt, a sliver of black lace peeking out from the gap between straining buttons.
‘Oh how disappointing.’ She breathes in heavily through her nose, her teeth digging into the painted swell of her lower lip. ‘The pain really is exquisite.’
Allie’s eyes are wide and dark and, for a moment or two, Lucifer feels as though she could fall into them. Down into the tangle of Allie’s mind, like Alice tumbling through the looking glass.
‘You’re fucked up, do you know that?’ Lucifer says, tearing her gaze away.
‘That you've only just noticed is a truly damning indictment of your observational skills.’
The bark of laughter that escapes Lucifer at the statement is muffled as she presses a kiss to the underside of Allie’s jaw, her teeth grazing across the demon’s pulse. Her grip around Allie’s wrists tightens.
‘What I have observed is that you’re here, in my room,’ Lucifer whispers into Allie’s skin, tongue flickering out between her kiss-swollen lips to taste the demon’s pulse. ‘Uninvited.’
The sound Allie makes is a strangled one. Lucifer feels her swallow, throat contracting against her lips.
‘I thought I’d cut out the tedious back and forth and take the invitation as both perpetually open and read,’ Allie declares after a moment, breathless.
Lucifer draws back. Her hands slide down the length of Allie’s forearms, across the soft cotton of her shirt, the fabric bunching beneath her fingertips.
’Perhaps I have better things to do,’ she says, toying with the seams that run up the inside of the demon’s arms.
’Better things than me?’ The look Allie gives her is one of arrogant disbelief. ‘I doubt that. If it were true, I wouldn’t find myself so frequently pestered to entertain.’
’I don’t pester.’ Lucifer hooks a finger beneath the stupid little harness Allie wears, delighting in the gasp it elicits. ‘And stop changing the subject. This… You like it.’
’Obviously.’
’Why?’
Allie’s eyes flash with something hot, but when she speaks again, her tone is dismissive. Bored.
‘Why does anyone like anything?’
’You should have been a philosopher,’ Lucifer says, forcing Allie’s thighs further apart as she repositions herself, one of her own now pressed between the demon’s legs.
‘As delightful as I find the act of murder, I’ve never felt the urge to try and kill God.’
A peal of laughter rings through the night air. ‘Just those who don’t meet your standards. Figures.’
Allie’s grin is sickle-sharp and wicked.
‘It’s important to set oneself achievable goals.’
‘Such as seducing the Devil?’
‘I only pick battles I’m certain I’ll win.’
Lucifer can feel the heat that rolls off Allie. The tensing of her muscles as she presses her leg harder against the demon’s core.
Allie’s hips buck. She moans, too, the sound whispering between her parted lips as Lucifer thumbs open the buckle of her harness.
The buttons of Allie’s shirt follow, one by one. Lucifer rocks her hips as each slips free, thigh rubbing against Allie’s soaked slacks, making the demon shudder.
‘Funny. That’s not how I remember it,’ Lucifer remarks, her voice light, airy, as she works her way towards Allie’s belt. ‘I distinctly remember you, flat on your back, having poisoned yourself for, what? The third time? Or maybe it was the fourth?’ She pulls the tails of Allie’s shirt free from her waistband. ‘If you call that winning, I’d hate to see what losing looks like.’ Hands slide beneath fabric to reveal skin, soft and covered in a light sheen of sweat. The muscles of Allie’s stomach twitch as Lucifer drags the backs of her knuckles along the sharp edge of a hip. ‘Wait, no. I absolutely want to see what losing looks like. It’ll be hilarious.’
‘I never lose,’ Allie replies.
It’s a bold statement, and like everything Allie ever says, it is meant to goad. To incite action. To force others to prove her wrong.
Lucifer has never been able to resist a challenge.
Her smile turns sly. ‘No?’
Hands sweep up the length of the demon’s torso, and Allie arches into Lucifer’s touch. Her own remain lax upon the bed, above her head, as though still pinned.
‘Would you call this a losing situation?’ Allie says. ‘Occupying the Devil’s bed, the sole focus of her attention.’
No, Lucifer thinks. Possibly not. Even if it has taken more poisonings than are strictly polite to get there.
Points for innovation, she supposes. And dedication.
Still, there’s no reason why Allie’s path to victory should run smoothly. Or that she should remain victorious at all. Lucifer is certain Allie would find it dull; if there is one thing the Radio Demon hates, it’s boredom. And perhaps it is time to demonstrate what the Devil’s full attention truly entails.
Allie’s bra—little more than a scrap of black lace and underwire—disappears with a brush of Lucifer’s fingertips, leaving only the static tingle of magic and lingering scent of ozone behind. She runs a hand over the swell of Allie's bare breasts, delighting in the gasp the action causes.
‘Sensitive?’ she asks, leaning down to bring her mouth closer to the underside of one. She grazes her teeth against the curve, leaving raised red lines in her wake.
‘Awfully so,’ Allie says. ‘Like a bruise.’
‘Want me to stop?’
Allie’s back arches. ‘I’d rather die.’
‘Knowing your fucked up tastes, you'd probably enjoy that, too.’
Allie doesn't reply. Instead, she slides her fingers into Lucifer's hair, and forces her head downwards until her breast fills the Devil’s mouth. Shudders as Lucifer's tongue sweeps over the pebble of her nipple. Groans as the tip of it flickers back and forth over the sensitive peak.
Lucifer feels a wave of pleasure roll across her abdomen and she presses the heel of her hand between her thighs. Hard.
Her other hand, stretched across the sparse swell of Allie's breast, squeezes in a way she knows makes the demon ache.
The weight of it is pleasing against her palm. The give of her skin, and the softness beneath—the only part of Allie with any softness to it at all—leaves Lucifer fighting the urge to sink the tips of her fingers, the points of her teeth into the flesh beneath.
‘Bite me,’ Allie gasps.
Lucifer pulls away, but not before pressing a kiss to Allie’s ravaged nipple, the action imbued with as much sweetness as she can manage. It is slow. Lingering. The barest tease of lips and tongue against aching flesh.
‘And let you have all the fun?’ she says as she shrugs free from Allie’s grip. ‘Ha! No.’
Allie’s smile thins. It’s the closest thing to a pout Lucifer has ever seen and it sends another wave of pleasure crashing through her, the need that pulses at her core becoming strangely urgent.
Lucifer shifts upon the bed. Slides lower to straddle Allie's thigh. Forces her to give something back as she grinds herself against the bone of it, her eyes fluttering shut as pleasure crackles up her spine. Each rock of her hips sends sparks crawling across her skin. Her cunt, wet and aching, twitches as the fabric of her pants rubs against the sensitive peak of her clit.
It's not quite enough. And she thinks of Allie's fingers and what they'd do if she forced her hand. Long. Elegant. Merciless as they slide beneath the waistband of her slacks, the tips of them rubbing the slickness that drips from her into her flesh.
Lucifer's hips buck at the thought. At the ghost of those fingers spearing up into her. Parting her flesh. Filling her so completely she can think of nothing else save the perfect fit of Allie's palm against her cunt, and the way the heel of her hand presses against her clit with every thrust of those wicked fingers.
She presses her head into the crook of Allie's neck and bites down to muffle the moan. Another echoes through the room—Allie’s—so full of need Lucifer finds her own cheeks heating with secondhand embarrassment. Her cunt throbs as if in sympathy, Lucifer's hips hitching forwards of their own accord in an attempt to ease the almost painful ache that pulses between the spread of her thighs. She can feel the way the fabric of her slacks sticks to her skin. How her excitement has bled through the material, much like Allie's has beneath her.
The bite turning to a kiss, she presses a hand flat between the crux of Allie's thighs. Slides her palm over the soaked fabric. Fingertips circle the space above the demon's entrance. Tempting. Teasing. Hoping to coax Allie into allowing her to pop open the buttons of her fly and slip beneath, the tang of copper filling the air as she pushes the tips of her fingers into the demon's cunt, the intrusion designed to add yet more pleasure to the painful ache.
‘More?’ she asks into the meat of Allie’s shoulder, tongue flickering across the marks she has left in the demon's flesh, knowing full well how sweetly it stings.
‘You expect me to deny myself?’
The mocking tone of Allie’s words barely disguise the need that colours her voice. Makes it tremble. Makes the radio filter slip for one brief moment.
‘Yeah, okay. Stupid question,’ Lucifer says as she tears at the fly of Allie’s slacks.
The fabric gives with little effort, scattering buttons across the bed. The growl of annoyance that reverberates through Allie’s chest feels like just as much of a victory as the slick skin beneath Lucifer’s fingertips. Pressing her head into Allie’s shoulder, mouth kissing a trail along the demon’s carotid, Lucifer begins to circle the stiff peak of Allie’s clit, applying just enough pressure to leave Allie squirming beneath her, a mess of pain and pleasure.
The faint copper tang of blood that permeates the air increases with every twitch of the demon upon the bed.
It feels wild. Primal, almost. An echo of who Allie used to be, once upon a time, before death stripped it all away.
So very human in a way Lucifer simply isn’t and never will be.
Allie moans loudly and Lucifer thrusts her fingers inside the demon’s tight, wet heat with little ceremony. Forcing her open in a way she knows drives Allie to the brink of both climax and sanity.
‘Fuck,’ Allie breathes, her hands fisting into the sheets.
She’s close already. Lucifer can feel it in the way her pulse quickens beneath her lips. The tensing of her thighs. How her breathing, already coming in fits and gasps, has begun to take on the shape of Lucifer’s name, the syllables whispered with each shaky exhale like a litany.
It would be so easy to tip her over the edge, Lucifer thinks.
A rough hand upon her breast.
A curl of fingertips inside her.
A kiss.
Lucifer’s eyes flutter shut as she imagines capturing Allie’s mouth with her own. Swallowing down her moans. Smearing her lipstick. Mimicking the thrust of her fingers with her tongue, taking everything the Radio Demon gives her.
Demanding more.
But this is war. This beautiful, fucked up thing that connects them, that drives them into each other’s trembling arms—into each other’s beds—is a battle of wits. Of wills. An exercise in cunning as much as it is anything else, every move designed to push the other into forcing their hand.
And though she longs to feel Allie fall to pieces beneath her, lose herself in the intensity of it all, in the power, Lucifer cannot let the demon win.
Biting her lip, Lucifer slides her fingers from the punishing heat of Allie’s cunt. Brushes the demon’s clit with the tip of her index. Delights in the desperate little whine of frustration that Allie can’t quite stifle as she pulls her hand free from the ruin of her slacks.
Her fingers glisten in the light that falls from the sconces on the far wall.
And suddenly, Lucifer knows how she will win this particular battle.
Smile wicked enough to rival Allie’s, she captures the demon’s face with her arousal-slicked hand. Jaw held between thumb and little finger, Lucifer presses the rest into Allie's mouth. Slides them between lipstick-stained lips and into the hot, wet cavern of the demon’s maw.
The groan it elicits is obscene. Beneath her she feels Allie begin to tense. Her hips buck against Lucifer's thigh as she comes apart at the seams, the action forcing the crease of Lucifer's slacks up against the aching flesh of her sex. Pleasure, sharp and overwhelming, claws deep inside her, making her cunt twitch around nothing.
Allie's tongue slides in between Lucifer's fingers, and it's all Lucifer can do not to come on the spot. Her mind is suddenly filled with the desperate need to feel Allie’s head between her thighs. The flat of her tongue against her aching clit. Her fingers spearing into her. Filling her. Taking every last piece until there is nothing left. Only Allie, merciless as she fucks her.
A snap of her fingers and their positions are reversed. Her hand slips from Allie’s mouth as their clothes vanish into the ether, the air heavy with the scent of arousal, ozone and blood.
Allie’s skin feels almost hot enough to brand. Slick with sweat and so achingly soft to the touch, like velvet over steel. Sparks crawl across Lucifer’s flesh at each point of contact. It’s intoxicating. As is the weight of her, the thigh pressed hard between Lucifer’s own forcing her down into the bed.
Panting, Lucifer pulls Allie into a savage kiss, ripping the rest of the demon’s climax from her in a mess of swollen lips and too-sharp teeth.
She can taste the blood on the tip of Allie's tongue.
The copper tang of it.
The echo of humanity.
And that’s enough to pull her over the edge, too. Make her see stars as reality shatters around her. Send her up into the stratosphere, free from the overwhelming pull of Hell, if only for a moment. One glorious moment before the pair of them are falling together, too lost in each other to notice as the world below rises up to meet them in a swirl of crimson and rumpled white bed sheets.
Some time later, when reality slides back into place around them, sweat cooling upon their skin, one wrapped around the other, Lucifer smooths a hand into Allie’s hair and asks, ‘Do you miss it?’
Life.
Humanity.
The being she had been before free will had taken it all away, the consequences of her choices leaving her little more than a shadow of her former self. A woman made anew from the shattered pieces of the old.
‘Do you?’ Allie replies, hooking a long, clawed finger beneath Lucifer’s chin.
The light of Heaven, high in Hell’s sky, slices through the gap in the curtains, casting long shadows upon the floor.
’No,’ Lucifer says firmly. ‘Not for a single second.’